


What the Water Gave Me

by PardonMyManners



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Children, Dany dies in childbirth, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth, Marriage of Convenience, POV Multiple, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Politics, Romance, Season 8, Slow Burn, War, and not because I get it mixed up on the reg, canon divergent after 8x02, mix of book and show canon, which we will pretend is intentional
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-01-16 06:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18515833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PardonMyManners/pseuds/PardonMyManners
Summary: She huffs out a humorless laugh and looks away, fingers trailing through the softly moving water. “There is hardly anything to return home to, and I belong with my family.” She looks up, sadness and grief and the memory of past hurts reflecting within the watery depths of her pretty eyes. “You are my home now, Jon Snow, where you go, I will follow.”“The lone wolf dies…” he starts, wrapping an arm about her slim shoulders.She leans into him, her head resting lightly upon his shoulder, as she finishes, “But the pack survives.”----With the dead defeated, those who remain must remember how to live.(Deviates from show canon following episode 8x02)





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-perspective fic, but I think it will mostly center around Jon and Sansa, especially as the story progresses.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I tried to tag this fic as sensibly and sensitively as possible. Full warning, rude comments will be deleted. Ship wars are stupid and generally make fandom a less enjoyable place and I want as little to do with them as possible. Thank you to my readers, none of my stories would exist without your encouragement.

After countless wars and terrible sacrifice, it’s an old and pitiless foe that finally lays Daenerys Targaryen low. For all that they were never precisely friends, and the respect between them had been begrudging at best, her death strikes Sansa an unexpected blow, even if only for Jon’s sake. 

 

A man can endure only so much before he breaks. 

 

A woman though… a woman carries on as she must.

 

They take her body to Dragonstone, those few who yet remain. Missandei, one of the Dragon Queen’s oldest and truest companions, holds the babe in her arms. The little princess wails, miniature limbs flailing as if she understands what has been lost, and the sound echos and carries as dragon wings flap overhead. Tyrion is the only one who weeps. Jon, like Sansa, is long past tears; staring blankly as the flames of her pyre burn against a cloudless sky. Missandei keeps her own counsel. 

 

They all leave, one by one, drifting back toward the castle until it is only Sansa who remains, windswept and hollow. She stares out across the sea, the wind whipping her hair painfully across her cheeks, but she barely feels it. They are alive, she thinks, against all odds, through all manner of horrors… but at what cost? At what cost?

\--

Later, the wet nurse departs and the princess falls almost instantly asleep in Sansa’s arms. She’s a small, pretty thing, with a tuft of dark hair and murky, blue-gray eyes that all infants share. She looks a bit like Arya, Sansa thinks.

 

A sick sort of wanting rises from deep within her as she holds the babe, a well of longing she’d thought long lost. Or at the very least, well repressed. As a girl, all she’d wanted in the world was a kind and gracious husband to love her and a flock of children to care for and nurture. Such dreams seem so silly now. What good had ever come of love?

 

She hands the child off to a waiting Missandei when she can bear the ache no longer. 

 

“He has not named her,” the other woman says almost conversationally as she runs a knuckle gently down the babe’s cheek. They are alone in a barren room somewhere within the depths of the castle. Sansa does not like Dragonstone, hates the way every sound echoes upward through every hallway and tower. The structure, made of dragon fire and magic and stone, is little more than a spiked shell of another time, so empty and lifeless as to be a tomb. The shadows are too long, the halls too cavernous. 

 

They do not belong here. 

 

“He is grieving,” Sansa says, the response nearly automatic. They have taken seats side-by-side, facing a crackling hearth as the sun sets golden beyond an open window. The breeze is cool and filled with the briny scent of the ocean. She likes Missandei, she realizes, almost as an afterthought. She suspects it is not a feeling that is reciprocated. 

 

“It is bad luck.”

 

Sansa considers this, her eyes fluttering closed against a wave of emotion. Jon had hardly spoken a word since the day his daughter had been born -since Daenerys had faded slowly into nothing. Jon had wept, wept like a child, and Sansa had clutched him to her breast as a mother might, murmuring nonsense and stroking his hair. To hear his heartbreak, even after all that had transpired between them, or perhaps because of it, broke what little was left of her own heart. To lose her after the battle was won made it all the more bitter. 

 

Jon had hardly been able to look at his daughter. Sansa was almost certain he had not held the babe since the midwife had placed her in his arms. The child’s pale body had been slick with the lifeblood of her dying mother. 

 

Sansa had given him time, distance, space. They all had. Partially for his benefit, but they all had their own wounds to lick. Their own losses to mourn. 

 

“I will speak to him,” she says at last. The time for mourning was at an end, it seemed. Or perhaps it was only that, given the chance, they might never stop. 

\---

She finds him in the Chamber of the Painted Table sitting where his ancestors must have sat before they conquered all the kingdoms and forged the Iron Throne. Where Daenerys must have sat when she’d first arrived at their shores. It was a haunted sort of room, shadowed and dank, despite the open windows. 

 

Jon doesn’t look Targaryen. He looks, as he always has, like her father. Even as a girl Sansa had understood that this irked her mother most of all; that it was Eddard Stark’s bastard son that should look most like him.  _ The Prince Who Was Promised _ , they call him, but it is not a title she can attribute to him easily. No, to her, she will always be Jon Snow -the bastard of Winterfell…the bravest and best man she’s ever known. Though he drives her a bit mad at times. 

 

He looks up as she walks toward him, dragging a finger along the infamous Painted Table, feeling the worn bumps and ridges glide across her skin. There is a flicker of life there, of recognition as she nears. It gives her a small sense of hope; hope that he is not yet lost. She brandishes a pair of sheers at him and his brows lift. 

 

“You look like a Wildling,” she tells him with a small smile. He grunts, lips twitching. 

 

“This hardly seems the place for it.”

 

“A poor excuse,” she says and moves to stand behind his chair. When he does not protest further, she gently untangles the leather tie in his hair. 

 

She hums as she tugs her fingers through the tangles in his curls. “You always had the prettiest hair,” she tells him, taking up the sheers. 

 

Jon grunts again. “Considering the amount of fights Robb and I got in with the other boys over the subject of  _ your _ hair, I beg to differ.”

 

Sansa flushes a bit at this. She hadn’t known Jon partook in Robb’s tireless -and often foolish- quests to protect her honor. Sometimes she forgets she’d once been a girl, silly and proper, ignorant to the truth of the world. Jon Snow reminds her that some part of that girl, no matter how battered, lives on within her. She isn’t certain whether she likes that or not. 

 

They are silent for a time, the only sound the soft  _ shuck _ of the sheers. It is a comfortable silence, and though she’s never cut another’s hair before -which she’d wisely not mentioned- she finds she likes the quiet simplicity. The intimacy of it, even. They’ve been so distant of late, with the war, and the chasm of loss that seems only ever to grow between them. Jon relaxes into her touch, shoulders slumping as she works, sighing in muted pleasure when her fingers scrape his scalp. 

 

When she’s done, she pulls a comb from her gown and ties it back as he prefers before rounding on him. His eyes track her warily. 

 

“Now for the beard,” she tells him, settling uncertainly on the edge of the table. 

 

“I don’t wish to question the competence of a lady, but I’ve a hard time believing you’ve ever trimmed a man’s beard.”

 

Sansa chuckles and leans forward to draw her comb through the unruly mess. “I can hardly make it any worse.”

 

“You’re too kind,” he says dryly, but protests no further. 

 

Silence falls once more, but it is less comfortable, charged with unspoken words. With a sudden physical nearness which is at odds with the emotional gaps that linger. It is Jon who braves the distance first. 

 

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here, Sansa,” he says with a weary sort of gentleness. 

 

She bites her lip, considering for a moment. “I was thinking to name her Lyanna… after your mother.”

 

She is too much a coward to meet his gaze but she hears his sharp inhale. His breath is warm across her face as it releases in a rush. He tries to speak, his throat bobbing, and stops short. Sansa hand trembles for a moment and she pauses, finally meeting his eye. 

 

“I have been remiss,” he says at last. There is such sorrow there. He looks far older than his five and twenty years, especially around his eyes and lips, and there are strands of gray in both his hair and beard that had not been there when they’d first found one another again.

 

“Yes,” she says, her tone gentle, compassionate, forgiving. She thinks she might be willing to forgive him anything; she had certainly already forgiven him everything. 

 

“Lyanna… feels right.” Jon allows, gaze dropping away, and Sansa resumes her careful trimming. 

 

“Your mother deserves to be remembered,” she says, “I am sure Daenerys would have agreed.”

 

Jon chuckles faintly, the sound brittle and gruff. “She’d settled on her own mother’s name, in truth.” 

 

Sansa wrinkles her nose -Rhaella did not seem right, not for a babe that looked so like a Stark.

 

“Things were not easy between us… in the end.” Jon admits, having noted her expression and perhaps misreading it. 

 

She chances a hum, more to prompt him than anything else. He has not confided in her for a long, long while.  _ Not since Daenerys.  _

 

“She did not… well, she did not wish to share a crown with one whose claim to it was stronger than her own.”

 

Sansa pulls the comb through his beard, taking a moment to ensure she’d cut evenly, shaping it to the line of his jaw. He seemed to expect some sort of reply.  “She came to the Westeros to rule a kingdom,” she said, “I suppose I could understand that she did not wish to have that taken from her.”

 

“I didn’t want it. None of it. I still don’t…”

 

A smile ghosts across her lips as she leans nearer to her task. “When has it ever really mattered what any of us wanted?” It had certainly never mattered for her.

 

He huffs, and the warmth of his breath paints her face. “I’m  _ tired _ Sansa,” he says, barely above a whisper. 

 

She finishes her work and sets the sheers aside. Jon is the greatest man of their age, her own personal hero, in truth, and if her role is to lift him upright when he falls, than… so be it. She reaches out and takes his hand in hers. 

 

“Yes, but you are alive, and there is more yet to be done.” 

 

The Night King was gone… but Cersei remained. 

 

His fingers squeeze against hers, skin dry and cool, as his eyes flutter closed on a deep exhale. When he opens them again he seems resolved, that spark of life fanning into weak but insistent flames.  _ I have not lost him yet _ , she thinks with relief. 

 

“Take me to my daughter.”

 

——

 

Eventually, they go to Riverrun. 

 

Winterfell, along with the rest of the North, is little more than a mass grave, burned out bones that had lasted centuries laid to ruin. Still, with all her mother’s family dead, she is the Lady of Riverrun and with the Frays eradicated, it sits waiting for them. They drag the remains of their armies, as well as those friends still alive, and chase a bit of warmth. The dragons, much to everyone’s shock, follow after. With Daenerys gone, they’d all expected the dragons to either leave or burn them all to ash… instead, they’d turned to Jon. A burden he shoulders with clear reluctance. 

 

Sansa, however, hopes they might prove useful again in the near future; however uneasy they might still make her. 

 

Arya, having arrived ahead with the other half of their forces, awaits them in the hall. She wears an odd look as Sansa approaches. “What is it?” she asks, placing a hand on her shoulder. Arya stiffens but does not move. 

 

“It was me.”

 

“What was?” 

 

Aray’s gaze flickers to hers. “I killed them.  _ All  _ of them.”

 

Sansa starts, hand falling away. They’d heard of the poisoning that had killed Walder Frey and nearly all his men, but she’d never suspected… 

 

After a moment of thought, her eyes drifting across the hall to the high seat where her Uncle had once sat, she says, with conviction, “ _ Good _ .”

 

Together, they leave the hall and begin the arduous process of setting Riverrun to rights. 

 

\---

Cersei is a snake poised to strike. It falls to Sansa to remind Jon of this. 

 

“She can keep it,” he says in reference to the Iron Throne, and his expression is muddled by the tree-dappled sunlight. It is peaceful here, quiet and secluded, the sound of the river ever present. 

 

Sansa likes to picture her mother here as a girl, walking the same forest paths, winding through the same halls. There is a peace to it; the old ache dulling into a quiet murmur, something to hold onto and remember rather than to be buried and forgotten. She thinks they might do well here; that they might be able to heal in time. 

 

But the world will not let them rest. Not yet. 

 

“She will not let us go so easily,” Sansa says, standing apart, afraid to draw too close, as if he might startle and take off running into the trees, never to be seen again. She has been avoiding this conversation for weeks, but the Golden Company has begun to gather for a northern march. “She will not let you or Lyanna live, not while so many would prefer you on the throne.”

 

Jon is silent for so long that Sansa is almost certain he will not speak. She considers leaving him, trying another day, gathering their forces as best she can on her own… or perhaps simply packing a cart and heading for the nearest port. They might disappear, she thinks, leave the Seven Kingdoms and all its ghosts behind. Raise Lyanna somewhere safe and far, far away from the broken and bitter politics of the Red Keep. 

 

“I do not think I have it in me,” he says, face turned toward the weirwood. She wonders what he sees when he looks into those bleeding eyes. Sansa sees Bran, her brother who is not her brother. She sees her father, standing in the godswood before their world had come crashing down. She sees fire consuming Winterfell as they flee horror and death. But all that is gone now. 

 

She steps to his side and takes his hand. “I….  _ we _ will be with you. Arya and I. You are not alone, Jon Snow. Let us end this, once and for all.”

 

He pulls his hand from hers and steps haltingly into the sunlight. He moves like an old man, she thinks with a pang and wishes fervently that she might bear this burden for him. How many times must she ask him to wage war? She prays this will be the last.  _ Oh, were it that I was a man _ , she thinks, a sour echo of Cersei's violent ambitions. 

 

Jon tips his head skyward, as though drinking in the warmth of the sun, his eyes closed and hands clenching at his sides before turning toward her again. There is the hint of a smile on his lips and it is perhaps the saddest thing she has ever seen. “Would that I had your strength Sansa.” It is though he has read her thoughts, and she fights back a shiver. 

 

Resolved to their path, she steps into the sun with him and takes his hand again. “You have it, Jon, always.”

\--

Sansa catches Missandei one night after the evening meal. Preparations for war are in full swing and Jon intends for them to march south in less than a fortnight. 

 

“Should things not go as planned… if it looks as though we shall lose…” Sansa starts in the shadows of the hall, the careful words she’d rehearsed tumbling away from her. But Missandei is already nodding. 

 

“I will protect her,” the woman says gravely, “with my life.”

 

Sansa does not doubt it, but the other woman’s vindication made her a little uneasy. She has no illusions that Missandei’s loyalty extends only so far as Daenerys Targaryen’s daughter’s well being does. There, at least, their purposes-aligned. It is enough, she reasons, and together they go in search of Lyanna’s nurse to settle the babe down for the night. 

\--

Their men are weary, heartbroken and soul-sick from the war with the dead. Even the Dothraki are muted and remiss. But Jon and the dragons give them courage. Sansa, who had thought herself past gods and faith, prays every night to whatever gods might be listening that it will be enough. 

 

“Father told me never to trust a mercenary,” Jon says, pulling on his gloves. He is dressed for battle in his Stark blazoned armor, Longclaw hanging resolutely from his side. He cuts a fierce and handsome picture, Sansa thinks, like something from a song. The sort she’d long stopped believing in... but here, today, she tries to recall that youthful optimism.

 

Together, they stare down past the rows of tents and toward the city.. 

 

“The Golden Company is different,” Sansa tells him, hot and restless beneath her gown. Already the winter eases with the Night King gone. 

 

“ _ Our word is as good as gold _ ,” Jon quotes wryly. “We’ll see how far that word stretches,” he adds, as the dragons circle overhead. 

 

Sansa smiles and it feels sharp on her face. “Arya?”

 

“Our scouts say she’s inside.” His tone has turned grim. He’d been reluctant to put Arya into danger, for which she’d all but laughed in his face before gathering a small group of men to aid in her plot and going on her way with hardly a backward glance. Jamie Lannister had volunteered, and after his bravery during the war against the Night King, none now questioned him -not even where his twin was concerned. 

 

“How long does she have now?” 

 

“I can give her till sundown at best.” Sundown to get all of the innocents out of the city, should Dragonfire become their only option -it was not nearly enough time, Sansa knew.

 

She nods a little nonetheless. “Theon?”

 

“He and his sister will attack at nightfall. Their ships will come in from the east and encircle the city. Tormund’s men will be in place to sabotage Euron’s ships.”

 

“Then it begins.”

 

Jon shakes his head. “No, this is where it ends.”

  
  



	2. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if reading his thoughts, the Hound says, “Seems a fucking waste, if you ask me.”
> 
> Jamie glares, uncertain of his meaning. “What does? Waiting for the Stark girl to come and fetch us, because I happen to agree-”
> 
> The other man cuts him off with a jerk of his hand and leans closer, the ruined side of his face cast in sudden and sharp relief. “I mean throwing your fucking life away because your sister is a mad bitch and you’re a self-sacrificing shit.”
> 
> Jamie scoffs, trying not to rise to the bait. “I’ve been accused of many things, Dog, but I’ve never been accused of self -sacrifice.”
> 
> The Hound grunts, his lips turned upward in a crude parody of a smile. “You’re right, you’re just another fucking coward.”

“Why do this?” Brienne demands, catching him roughly by the arm.

 

Jaime had hoped to avoid her; afraid his courage might fail him if he saw her hard, unmoving face with its eyes that shown with all the words her heart couldn’t, or wouldn’t say. Perhaps the only person in all of Westeros who didn’t know Brienne of Tarth loved him was the woman herself.

 

He loves her, too; which is perhaps more shocking. A love that had brought him North, to the very brink of oblivion and death, but it could not keep him now. He loved her, more than he’d ever thought himself capable, but it wasn’t enough. Not while Cersei still lived.

 

“They need someone who knows the city better than a girl who hasn’t stepped foot inside it since she was ten.”

 

Her pale eyes narrow and her grip tightens painfully; he’s certain he’ll have bruises. “There are a hundred fools who know the city better than your gilded arse. Tell me the truth, even if you won’t-“

 

“It has to be me, Brienne,” he says wearily. He doesn’t wish to lie to her, not here, at the end. He is tired of lying.

 

It feels very much as though his entire life has been building to this moment.This choice. Her grip loosens and he eases his arm free as she shakes her head in disbelief.

 

Gods, to look at her, it’s like looking into another life, another path he might have chosen. It is too late now.

 

“It doesn’t,” she insists fiercely, “Jon, he’ll-“

 

Jaime doesn’t learn what Jon _b_ _loody_ Snow might do to prevent a destiny that fees utterly inevitable to him now, for he takes a step forward and kisses her. Brienne is frozen and hard and he can feel her shock, can feel the echo of girlish uncertainty, before she softens and the contact deepens and soars. She tastes like absolution.

 

He pulls away, breathless, and cups the back of her head to keep her forehead pressed to his. _Do not falter now._ “You’re the best of us, Ser Brienne. You’re what we were meant to be. What _I_ was meant to be.”

 

“Jaime-” she starts, voice cracking, but he stumbles away from her. She doesn’t call out or go after him and he does not look back. He thinks, perhaps, that she understands.

\--

The Stark girl isn’t a fool, and neither, unfortunately is the Hound.

 

Together the three of them huddle in a dilapidated whore house within the shadow of the Red Keep. They’d passed the evacuation efforts off to the other, far more knowledgeable members of their party, and turned toward their true purpose. Arya Stark hadn’t given him time to protest, her eyes as sharp as daggers. “I’ll see it done if you don’t,” was all the explanation she’d offered, and after everything that had happened, after what she’d done during the battle at Winterfell, he is not inclined to argue.

 

The Hound had rolled his eyes and said, “I’m after my fucking brother, I don’t give two steaming shits about your mad sister.” Jaime had been quietly relieved; in his prime the Mountain might have out matched him, with one hand and more years than he cared to consider, he stood hardly a chance at all.

 

“These mercenary cunts will catch us the second we leave this place,”  the Hound grunts as a well-armored patrol passes beneath their window. Like most mercenaries, they wear their wealth on their bodies; jewel encrusted armor and weapons gleaming in the dappled sunlight, gems dripping from fingers and throats. One of them men makes a joke and the others laughs; _Clearly they aren’t worried about the fire breathing monsters circling overhead or the army outside the walls_.  The thought made him nervous. What was Cersei planning?

 

“Wait here,” the Stark girl says impassively and disappears without another word… or sound.

 

“Fucking creepy,” the Hound mutters, but, much to Jaime's surprise, settles his expansive bulk into an old, half rotted chair that somehow manages to hold his weight.

 

Jaime cannot settle. He stands apart from the window, fidgeting and resisting the urge to pace, aware they must make as little noise as possible. Hours pass that way, the sun tracing ominously across the sky -Snow had given them till sundown to get out of the city- until he gives up on the pretense of stillness and paces as quietly as he is able, mind churning. What will he say to her? What might she say in return? What if, in the end, he doesn’t have the strength to do what he knows must be done?

 

The Hound eyes him impassively, grating on his already fraying nerves until he’s half tempted to throw the big man out the window -assuming he could manage it, which is doubtful.

 

As if reading his thoughts, the Hound says, “Seems a fucking waste, if you ask me.”

 

Jaime glares, uncertain of his meaning. “What does? Waiting for the Stark girl to come and fetch us, because I happen to agree-”

 

The other man cuts him off with a jerk of his hand and leans closer, the ruined side of his face cast in sudden and sharp relief. “I mean throwing your fucking life away because your sister is a mad bitch and you’re a self-sacrificing shit.”

 

Jaime scoffs, trying not to rise to the bait. “I’ve been accused of many things, _Dog_ , but I’ve never been accused of self -sacrifice.”

 

The Hound grunts, his lips turned upward in a crude parody of a smile. “You’re right, you’re just another fucking _coward_.”

 

Jaime bristles, fury brewing in the wake of his anxiety. “If I wanted your opinion I’d-”

 

“Save it, Kingslayer, I don’t give two shits what you do with your life.  If you want to run off and kill yourself because you’re too afraid to figure out who you are when you’re not fucking your sister or licking your father's withered old balls, than be my guest-”

 

Jaime, against his better judgement, lunges at the other man, knocking him backward out of his creaky chair and onto the rotting floorboards. The wood groans beneath them as they tussle, cursing and spitting like a pair of tomcats. A sharp kick to the ribs and a sword at his throat proves to be a cold dose of reality.

 

“Aren’t you a fine pair of lovers,” the mercenary says with a wide grin, motioning them upright with the tip of his sword. He’s a short fellow and Jaime's certain he and the Hound could overpower him, until he hears the damning sound of armored boots from down below.

 

The mercenary touches Jaime’s metal hand with the tip of his sword, eyes widening with sudden interest and no small amount of greed. “The Queen’s been looking for a man with a missing hand… I have a feeling she’ll be _very_ interested to see you.”

\--

The Red Keep is all but empty, and to Jaime it feels more like a tomb than a palace. There are no giggling courtiers in the halls or whispering Lords tucked into alcoves… they are all dead or long since fled. The tiles and stones are thick with dust.

 

 _This_ , he thinks bitterly, _is to be my family’s legacy_.

 

The Hound, for his part, seems downright jolly. Smirking and grinning at their captors and ignoring their jabs as though he’s the Mother herself. Jaime is almost certain they are going to their deaths, which means, in turn, Jon Snow will be forced to burn the whole gods' damned city down to wrest his sister free of it.

 

Jaime thinks it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, in the end.

 

The throne room is empty save for his sister, the hulking and terrifying mass that had once been the Mountain, the sniveling shit Qyburn, and-

 

“Bron, you sly fuck,” Jaime croons in honest surprise and a sinking feeling settles in his gut, “I’d wondered where you’d gone to.”

 

The other man has the grace to look slightly ashamed and shrugs just a bit. Tyrion’s crossbow is clutched in his hands. “She pays upfront,” he says before Cersei raises a hand.

 

“Enough,” she says quietly, but her voice carries, echoing through the oppressive emptiness. Their mercenary escorts shove them to their knees before the steps to the throne, and Jaime suppresses a jarring flinch as his knees smack against the hard stone.

 

She’s kept her hair short, and the gray in her golden curls shimmers beneath her crown. Her eyes watch him with something like bored disinterest, but Jaime knows her too well. Lithe, delicate fingers clutch the arms of her throne, knuckles white, and his heart lurches into his throat.  

 

Their mercenary captors bow and are dismissed with a wave of Cersei’s hand; she has no need of mercenaries with the Mountain looming nearby.

 

“I knew you’d return,” she says at last and Jaime shrugs.

 

“I’d always intended to.” Which is entirely true.

 

She sneers. “Yes, well, as I said, you were always the stupidest Lannister.”

 

“How is my son?” he asks casually, and something akin to fury flashes briefly in her eyes. He’d heard of the birth in Riverrun; yet another child he would never be father to.

 

“ _My_ son is well,” she snaps.

 

“He won’t be for long,” the Hound rasps as the distant flap of dragon wings reaches them.

 

Cersei’s sneer curves into a wide smile that borders on true madness; it's a smile that sends chills slithering down his spine. Is this what she has always been, he wonders. Was I truly so blind? No, he thinks, no... Cersei had always been quick and crafty but the world had taken her softness, her kindness, and left her with little more than bitterness and a thirst for power. They'd all made her sharp and deadly, a product of abuse and negligence. 

 

“The Northern bastard and his bitch of a sister are welcome to what I intend to leave behind.”

 

Jaime draws in a breath and rises to his feet, taking a cautious step forward, ignoring the Mountain as he mirrors the movement, one massive paw on the hilt of his sword. “Stop this now, Cersei,” he pleads. “It’s over… you know it is. Surrender and Snow _will_ show mercy.” _Sansa wouldn’t like it, but Snow isn’t the sort to murder a baby_ , _nor, perhaps, a woman who has surrendered._

 

Disgust reflects in her eyes as she rises and paces to him, stopping when they are only a bare foot apart. He can smell her perfume, can almost feel the heat of her skin, and his eyes burn traitorously.

 

“Then he is an even bigger fool than you are.”

 

She reaches up and cups his jaw and it is all he can do to not flinch away from her touch, his heart a ragged mess. Love and hate are so closely intertwined that he can no longer discern between the two. “I will raise this city to the ground, brother, before I let anyone take it from me.”

 

“Cersei, please,  you must-”

 

“Enough,” she half screams, startling him, and she jerks away. Her nails leave trails of fire on his cheek.

 

“Bron,” she says icily and his one time friend slowly raises the weapon in his hands. Their gazes lock for a moment, just long enough for Jaime to clearly read the other man's guilt. _At_ _least he'll feel bad about it_ , he thinks with dark humor. Jaime closes his eyes at the sound of the crossbow string setting into place. _This isn’t right._   _W_ _e were meant to go as we came -together_.

 

Things happen very quickly.

 

There is the snap of the bow string and a sharp cry. Jaime opens his eyes, waiting for the sudden pain of a bolt through the chest, only to find Qyburn on his knees, eyes wide. There is a terrible and shocked silence as the old man utters a single, bloody gurgle before tumbling down the steps. Cersei screams in fury, the Mountain draws his sword, and the mercenary who’d captured them is suddenly cutting their bonds and handing them weapons.

 

In the unmistakable voice of Arya Stark, the mercenary says, “I’ll handle the guards, but you two best hurry the fuck up.”

 

Bron is dashing down the hall to escape the Mountain, but he’s clearly not fast enough. The lumbering monstrosity is surprisingly quick, and he raises his sword for what is certain to be a killing blow, only to be blocked by his brother, the Hound. Bron wisely tumbles to the side, dropping the crossbow and cursing viciously as he scampers further down the hall.  

 

Jaime blinks, trying to shake his disorientation, and turns to find Cersei attempting to flee. He makes to follow her, only to find the Mountain in his path. The Hound is groaning to one side, clutching his stomach, but Jaime doesn't have time to assess the severity of his situation as he darts to one side to avoid a blow that very likely would have cleaved him in two.

 

Nearly tripping over his own sword, Jaime manages to send another powerful blow glancing to the side just as the Hound finally regains his feet and lets out a bellowing roar before tackling his brother to the ground. The Mountain’s helm rolls across the room and both Jaime and Bron lurch back in disgust. Gregor Clegane’s face is a rotted horror, lips purple and puffy, skin peeling away from his jaw and revealing the hint of the bone beneath, and his eyes are a gleaming horrific red.

 

“You’re one ugly fucker, aren’t you?” the Hound hisses, punching his brother once square in the face before he’s thrown a good yard to one side.  The Mountain rises to his feet, fat, fleshy lips pulled back to reveal black, rotten teeth in a chilling snarl.

 

Bron, in a rare show of strength, manages to nearly cleave one of the monster’s arms free of his body. Not his sword arm, unfortunately. The Mountain doesn't make a sound, merely turns and swings wide. Bron attempts to dash out of the way, but the tip of the blade catches him across the hip and blood splatters across the stone in a long, glittering arc.  

 

_A sword sliding through dry, sagging flesh, a soft, rasping cry of pain, blood soaking into stained silk and pooling on the stones._

 

Wavering under the weight of his memories, Jaime only just manages to parry the Mountain's attack as Bron crawls feebly out of the way, clutching his hip. Jaime’s arm rattles painfully at the impact and he nearly loses his sword, only barely managing to tighten numbing fingers.

 

He parries another swing, but the third knocks his sword from his fingers and he stumbles back against the cold grip of a pillar. He sees Cersei from the corner of his eye. She is no longer attempting to flee, standing imperiously near the throne, a sneer of satisfaction on her face. The Mountain raises his sword, red eyes flaming with perpetual fury, and Jaime feels frozen in place. He thinks, perhaps, he’s merely tired of running; thinks that his resolve would have failed him in the end anyway. She'd always been the crueler of the two of them, and he was not the same man who'd pushed Bran Stark from a tower window. 

 

A dagger appears in the monster’s head as if by magic, stunning them all. Arya Stark stands at the main doors, four dead mercenaries at her feet, still dressed in armor that does not belong to her. The Mountain stumbles once, sword clattering to the ground, and falls to his knees.

 

Behind him, the Hound looms like the Stranger, his face filled with dark vengeance -a lifetime of hatred shinning in his eyes- and removes his brother’s head from his shoulders in one clean sweep. Jaime flinches, expecting a rain of blood, but the Mountain is dry as a bone. His rotted head rolls across the room and stops at the steps, just below where Cersei stands. Jaime lifts his gaze just in time to watch her pull the trigger on the crossbow, her eyes gleaming with rage and terrible, yawing grief.

 

Pain explodes in his chest, driving out any other thought or emotion. Gasping in agony, Jaime slumps slowly to the ground. His fingers trace across his chest to touch the bolt embedded there as another dagger finds its home in Cersei's arm. She screams as Jaime's vision blurs, crossbow clattering to the ground as she stumbles backward and falls against the steps. Arya struts slowly across the room, her narrow little sword pointed at his sister; the Stark girl's face is almost passive, clear of any anger or malice. Jaime imagines that her’s is the face of the Father, the face of Justice.

 

“Cersei Lannister,” Arya says in a clear, ringing voice. “It is time you paid for your crimes against my family.”

 

Jaime fights to remain conscious as Cersei fumbles her way up the steps, slipping in her own blood, something like fear dawning in her eyes. _It wasn’t supposed to end like this_ , he thinks as the pain in his chest begins to fade, giving way to a terrible cold. _Together, we were meant to go together._

 

Just as the Stark girl reaches his twin, the point of her sword held to the pale line of Cersei's throat, the darkness consumes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I tried to write an action scene.


	3. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa unfurls the scroll in her hands and turns toward the gathered crowd, their faces grim and full of burning hatred. In a clear, strong voice, Sansa reads, “Cersei of House Lannister, you have been accused and found guilty of murder, the mass slaughter of innocents, conspiracy to commit murder, and high treason against the crown. For these crimes, and in the name of King Jon of House Targaryen the First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the Prince Who Was Promised, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of Realm, the penalty is death by beheading. Have you any last words?” Jon tries not to cringe, hating each and every one of his ridiculous titles -Dany would have teased him endlessly. It should have been her, he thinks, pressing his eyes closed for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I actually wrote a story outline for this fic. I never write story outlines. It makes me optimistic about actually finishing this. Have it mapped out to 24-25 chapters. Look at me, dreaming big!
> 
> Worth noting that I wrote this fic prior to 8x03 soooo, yeah, keep that in mind. Also, also, I tend to write with a mix of show/book canon; some of it is intentional (like Harry Strickland not being a fat, old bald dude) and some of it is because I get the two mixed up. Just a bit of forewarning. 
> 
> WARNING: Mild violence/gore ahead.

Jon can't decide if he ought to shake some sense into Arya, or if he should throw himself at her feet and thank the Gods for her. He settles on a stern nod and a quick twitch of his lips, the later of which she returns with a self-satisfied smirk. She will never cease to amaze him, he concludes with a sort of weary fondness.

 

Sansa can’t quite seem to believe her eyes. “H-how?” she manages weakly as Arya forces Cersei Lannister to her knees at their feet.  

 

The captive woman refuses to look at any of them, clutching her injured arm against her stomach, dried blood marring a fine golden gown that sports other mysterious stains, and the skirts of which have been shredded to almost nothing in several places. Considering the layers of grime in the fallen Queen’s hair and on Arya’s jerkin, not to mention the _smell_ , Jon can guess which avenue they’d used to escape the city.

 

Arya shrugs. “Varys told us which tunnels to use. It was hard going, with the injured, but we made it.”

 

Behind Sansa, Ser Brienne snaps to attention, eyes burning with a mixture of worry and grief.  “Ser Jaime?”

 

“In the healers tent,” Arya says tersely before softening a bit -some grudges were not so easily forgotten. “He is… not doing will.”

 

Brienne looks to Sansa, eyes pleading. His sister - _no_ , he thinks sternly, _she has never been my sister; cousin, she is my cousin_ \- grants her silent request with a nod. The large woman makes quickly for the tent flaps.

 

As she passes, Cersei lashes out and grips Brienne’s hand with claw-like fingers, her once beautiful face transformed by hatred and fury. “He will _never_ be yours, you hideous _bitch_.”

 

A smile blooms on Brienne’s lips for a moment, sharp and cutting, before she spits directly into Cersei’s upturned face. The woman cries out in a fury, scrubbing at her check and mouth, and attempts to rise to her feet, only to be slammed down to her knees again by a grinning Arya. Brienne departs the tent without a backward glance.

 

Sansa, having recovered from her shock, is staring at Cersei with such a terrible expression of hatred and uncertainty that Jon instantly wishes to take her in his arms. All he’s wanted to do, since the moment she’d found him at the Wall what felt like a lifetime ago, is protect her. She had not appreciated his efforts then and she certainly has no need of them now; she has made that abundantly clear. Still… sometimes it is easy to forget all that Sansa has suffered, all the scars that lie beneath the layers of ice and stone. Easy to forget that the filth covered woman before them is the cause of many of those wounds.

 

“Keep her under constant watch while we decide what should be done with her,” Jon instructs the Unsullied guard waiting outside the tent. He’s glad they’d remained as something of a personal bodyguard, particularly in this case -he did not trust his people to allow Cersei Lannister to remain alive or unmolested for long.

 

The two men drag Cersei to her feet and she does not resist as she is pulled from the tent. Jon feels uneasy, worried that so long as the Lannister queen still lives, she will be plotting against them.

 

“Her child?” Sansa asks quietly when the woman is gone.

 

Arya shakes her head. “Managed to corner one of her maids… she miscarried moons ago. She was, ah, keeping _it_ in a cradle by her bed.”

 

Jon recoils, he cannot help it, and almost feels pity for the broken Lannister queen. Sansa says nothing, her face a cool mask of disinterest, her eyes, however, are sharp and clear and he can almost hear her mind churning. He resists the urge to take her hand, struck again by the fact that he could not have done any of this without her.

 

Still, he misses the council of those who are long gone; Davos, Edd...Dany.

 

“We gave her till sundown to surrender, which is only a few hours away,” he reminds them, brushing the memories, still so bitter, so fresh as to make his knees weak, aside. “I’m guessing the Golden Company isn’t universally aware that their employer has been captured. So,” he looks between the two women who’d once been his sisters, “what do we do now?”

 

Arya shrugs, her expression clearly communicating that she’d done her part, which Jon can’t argue. Sansa paces around the war table at the center of his tent, brow furrowed.  

 

“The Company will know Cersei is gone soon, if they do not already. Call a truce,” she says, “Bring Cersei, it is likely that only she can void the contract.”

 

Arya spins a dagger in her hands. “Killing her would break it just as well.”

 

Jon is not completely repulsed by the idea, but... “We don’t know that for sure. They’ve been paid, and they’ve a reputation for fulfilling contracts.”

 

“They broke their contract with Myr,” Sansa points out, her pale fist pressed against her chin. She still wears the dark, heavy gowns of the North and he can see the glisten of sweat along her brow.

 

“True,” Jon concedes. “And I’m certain they know what we will do if they do not surrender.”

 

“Dragons can be very convincing,” Sansa says with just a hint of bitterness, but her face, when he looks, is as placid as a still lake.

 

Jon sends for Sam, who arrives breathing hard. “We need to meet with the Company’s leadership, is there a way?”

 

“Strickland is their leader, Harry Strickland. He’s apparently a reasonable fellow,” Sam says, “Is it true then, is she…?”

 

Jon nods. “Aye, we’ve captured her.”

 

Sam deflates with relief. “Thank the Gods, and ah, yes, we’ll send an envoy.”

 

A sudden clamoring outside draws them from the tent; a spark of fear ignites in Jon’s breast, certain Cersei has executed one final plot. A crowd of men has gathered just down the rise and they are pointing and shouting past the city proper and into the bay, which is on fire. Over a dozen ships have been transformed into brilliant and smoking trees of green flame, black clouds billowing and dancing against the pale blue of the sky. Even from their distance, he can smell the burning.  As Jon watches, two of the ships topple and sink into the bay and a cheer rises from the men gathered. Jon turns to Sam and grabs him by the arm.

 

“Quickly, Sam, before this gets out of hand.” He fears what the Golden Company might do now in retribution.

 

Sam’s eyes widen and and he nods, stumbling away and pushing through the crowd.

 

Jon turns to find Sansa at his side. She is frowning. “Was burning the ships to cinders part of the plan?” she asks, tone cool.

 

“No, they were meant to just disable them, kill the crews if necessary, and capture Euron if they could.”

 

She glances at him. “Without a fleet, we will have a hard time returning the Golden Company to Essos.”

 

Jon, who hadn’t considered such a prospect, sighs. “A problem for another day. First, we have to convince them to surrender.”

 

\--

The sun is low in the sky when Tyrion finds him pacing in a copse of trees, his Unsullied guard standing like sullen statutes between the tangled roots. Jon wishes he might leave them behind, even if only for a moment. Ah, to be a worthless bastard again, he thinks, without any real bitterness. Those days are long behind him, and there is no use in wishing otherwise.  

 

The Unsullied do not move as the dwarf passes between them; Jon almost wishes they would for he knows what he has come to ask him, and he hasn’t the faintest idea of what to say. He wishes, as he often does when such moments fall upon him, that Sansa were there -she always knew what to say.

 

For once, Tyrion Lannister does not skirt about an issue. Jon is never a match for his wit and finds it an utter waste of time to try. Tonight, however, he almost wishes for the distraction of some subtle barb or dismissive jape. “You have her then?” Tyrion asks, eyes serious and steady in his marred face.

 

Jon suppresses a sigh. “Aye, we do.”

 

Tyrion shakes his head, incredulous. “ _How_?”

 

An excellent question, Jon thinks. “Your brother did not tell you?”

 

Tyrion’s expression hardens. “My brother is on the brink of death, Your Grace, and not capable of telling anyone anything.”

 

Jon flinches, ashamed to admit that he’d entirely forgotten the fate of the Kingslayer. There was no love lost between them, which was no secret, but Jaime Lannister’s assistance in apprehending Cersei deemed him worthy of at least some consideration. Gods, he is tired. Eternally, perpetually, wearied down to his very bones.

 

“I am sorry… I-well, I pray he will recover,” Jon says and Tyrion gives a nod that borders on dismissive. Jon continues, “It was a plot, between he, Arya and the Hound. They killed her Hand, the Mountain, and sneaked her out of the city using some secret passage through the sewers. I haven’t had time yet to learn the finer details.”

 

“I’m sure it will make quite the tale,” Tyrion says dryly. “The child?”

 

He hesitates, looking away, which is apparently all the answer the other man needs. “I suspected a ruse on her part.”

 

“Miscarriage,” Jon corrects, wishing he didn’t have to. “She was, ah, keeping it…”

 

“Gold will be their crowns, and gold will be their shrouds…” Tyrion murmurs mysteriously, looking away, his small hands clenched into fists at his side.  

 

Jon says nothing. What can he say? He knows what the dwarf will ask next and knows what his answer must be.

 

“May I see her?”

 

Jon shakes his head, meeting Tyrion’s eye because he must, because despite all that has transpired between their families, he counts Tyrion as almost a friend. “I do not think that wise.”

 

“Certainly you do not think I am on _her_ side after everything.”

 

Jon’s lips twitch, hinting at a humorless smile. “I think you have more cause to hate her then most. But, as Sansa would say, family-”

 

“Is complicated.”

 

Jon smiles a bit, this time with feeling, and Tyrion returns it, looking resigned.

 

“May I ask what you will do with her?”

 

Jon sighs, looking west, watching as the sun begins to set, bloody and harsh, dreading what is to come. “I am not sure yet, we hope to treat with the Golden Comp-”

 

Tyrion takes Jon by his forearm, his grip firm and his eyes bright and steely. “You must not let her live,” he says. “So long as she draws breath she will be a threat to you and yours. To the whole gods’ damned kingdom.”

 

Jon hesitates and Tyrion’s grip tightens. “Now is not the time for mercy, Snow. She is a poison that will taint every well she comes into contact with. End it. Now.”

 

“I-”

 

Sam blunders into view at that moment, face flushed and breathing heavy. “M-morning, they will treat w-with you in the morning.”

\--

Theon and his sister, Yara, are battered, bloodied, and covered in ash, and they fall to their knees as soon as Jon sweeps into his tent. They look like death, and he forgets some of his anger and frustration. They’ve had a far worse day than he.  

 

“How did it happen?”

 

Yara speaks instantly, her eyes remaining downcast. “As soon as the crews realized they were routed, they put fire to the ships, Your Grace.”

 

Jon nods and he meets Sansa’s eye from where she sits behind his desk -she regularly sits there well into the night, reviewing correspondences and taking notes for him. She slept almost as little as he. Presently, she gives him a resigned nod. So many ships lost.

 

“Your uncle?”

 

The fury in Yara’s voice is palatable. “Escaped.”

 

Jon sighs and motions for the young serving boy hovering near the tent flap to enter. The lad hesitates a moment before hurrying forward, head bowed. “Send for some supper and have them bring plenty of water,” Jon tells him wearily, watching as he scampers off. Jon himself places two chairs before his own near where Sansa sits.

 

“Sit, both of you,” he commands, and they hasten to do so. “Are you injured?”

 

“No, Your Grace.” Theon answers quietly.

 

“Nothing that won’t heal on its own,” Yara adds, sinking into her chair. She rarely maintains a sense of nobel decorum for long, which Jon deeply appreciates.

 

“Where will he go?” Sansa asks quietly, setting her quill aside. She is watching Theon carefully, worry turning down the corners of her full lips. Jon has made his peace with what Theon did to his family - _their_ family- but forgiveness is something that takes time and he hasn’t the benefit of shared suffering to ease the passage. Still, he is glad the other man lives. Glad they might all sit here, together, now that the end of war and strife is so near at hand.

 

_Gods, just let me rest._

 

“Not home, that’s for damned sure.” Yara growls, dabbing at the dried blood along her brow with her filthy sleeve. “Essos, probably. Bravos, specifically, if I had to guess.”

 

“We will bring him to justice,” Jon promises, ignoring Sansa’s soft, almost imperceptible sigh. She does not approve of his sense of honor, feels it is an unnecessary distraction. Sometimes, Jon thinks she might be right, but he does not know how to be any other sort of man. At least he is wise enough to keep her counsel near, so that she might be the voice of reason when his honor demands foolishness.

 

Yara grunts and eyes Jon, a hint of humor in her eyes. “I hear you’ve captured the Lannister bitch.”

 

Jon allows himself to smile. Despite it all -despite the worry and uncertainty- it is a far better end than he’d ever dared to hope for. Just that morning he’d been preparing himself to burn the Red Keep, and everyone within it, to ash. “Aye… we treat with the Company tomorrow.”

 

Yara’s sigh of relief is so strong the candles on Jon’s desk flickr. Sansa shoots the other woman a faintly annoyed look which is largely ignored. “Thank the fucking gods for that. Damn tired of fighting.”

 

She and Theon exchange a small, almost affection look, just as the serving boy arrives with two women and another man in tow. They’ve four platters of food, two large jugs of water, and a flask of wine between them.

 

“We’ll take our dinner with us, if that’s alright?” Yara asks, standing stiffly. “Ah, Your Grace,” she adds belatedly.

 

Jon chuckles and rises to his feet, praying Yara never changes. “Of course, see to your men and get some rest.”

 

They depart with two of the plates, a jug of water and the wine flask upon Jon’s insistence, and he and Sansa are left alone. Many of his nights have been like this; just he and Sansa, talking strategy, politics, or recalling their shared childhood with gentle sadness. Sometimes they would just sit silently, staring into a brazier, lost in their own memories, until she finally drifted off to her own tent and he to his bed. Jon leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, listening to the noises of the camp, the sound of the sweet spring wind in the trees and the soft scratching of Sansa’s quill across rough parchment.

 

“Lyanna?” he asks after a time, bordering almost on sleep. The scratching of the quill pauses and he can hear the smile in Sansa’s voice when she answers, “She is well. Missandei says she has a fierce appetite and has been sleeping longer in the night.”

 

Jon cracks a heavy eyelid. Sansa is not looking at him but out the tent flap, toward the glimmering stars and the half-moon that shines upon them. He wonders what she sees there, among the constellations. He knows her so well, in some ways; her gestures, her movements, the subtle shifting tones in her voice, but her mind… her heart, remain a mystery to him.

 

“I wish she might stay with me in my tent,” he confesses and Sansa looks to him, her smile warm. It is not a smile she shares with anyone but he and Arya, not anymore, and it is like good ale in his belly, heating him through. _She deserves to smile more_ , he thinks.

 

“Then neither of you would get any sleep,” she reminds him dryly.

 

Jon chuckles, the sound weary, and he forces himself to stand, tugging at the laces of his tunic with clumsy, tired fingers.

 

“I know it, but… well…” he hasn’t the words for it, the love he has for his daughter, now that he’s shed his shroud of grief. It consumes him, frightens him... but also fills him with courage, with purpose. A light in the darkness.

 

“I understand, Jon,” Sansa says, standing in turn, and she comes to him, impatiently brushing his fingers aside and helping him with the buckles of his jerkin. She is very near, the stained hem of her skirt brushing the tops of his boots, and Jon closes his eyes, appreciating her gentle ministrations and the subtle scent of her skin and hair; lavender and lemon. “I will sleep in her tent tonight,” she murmurs when she is done, a new, different sort of smile on her face. It is almost vulnerable, he thinks, like the smile of a maid, fresh and new.

 

“I can think of no one better to protect her.”

 

The smile, so fragile, disappears and hurt flickers in her eyes before she can turn away. “You jest,” she says, her back to him. Her long, flame-colored hair is braided simply and it makes a fiery line down her spine.  

 

Jon feels a fool; he hadn’t meant to tease her, the words falling from his lips without a thought because they were entirely true. He grabs her gently by the arm, shifting his grip till he has her hand, and presses a firm kiss to her knuckles. Her eyes are wide and he smiles, swiping his thumb over the place his lips had been, her skin soft beneath decades of calluses.

 

“It is no jest, Sansa. I know you love her as I do.” He hesitates, releasing her hand but keeping her gaze. “Thank you… I, well, I do not say it nearly often enough. I wouldn’t be here - _none_ of us would- if not for you.”

 

Sansa clasps her hands before her -a sure sign she is uncertain of herself- and smiles, letting him know that he is forgiven. “We make a good team,” she says with a bit of wry humor.

 

Jon chuckles and nods. “Aye, we do.” It was true, of course. They’d disagreed often enough, sometimes heatedly, but together they’d managed to win two wars and organize a third.

 

They share another smile before Sansa ducks her head, a bit of color high in her cheeks. “I will let you rest. We’ve a big day tomorrow.”

 

And, just like that, the tentative ease between them is gone and the reality of his burdens return, pressing down upon him like a great wall of stone. Jon nods and turns toward his cot, piled with furs, thinking of Cersei Lannister’s fury contorted face.

 

“Tomorrow, we end this.”

 

\--

The following morning, just after dawn, they meet under the white flag of peace on the tourney field outside of the King’s Gate, both parties flanked only by a handful of guards. Harry Strickland, Commander of the Golden Company, immediately dismounts his horse and falls gracefully to his knees, as if he’s well rehearsed in defeat. Jon eyes him warily from atop his horse.  

 

Strickland is a handsome fellow, younger than Jon had anticipated, with gleaming golden hair and a chiseled jaw. The man glances toward Sansa with a familiar sort of interest that makes Jon want to climb down off his horse and throttle him. Sansa, for her part, looks pointedly away, the picture of icy indifference. _If only she weren’t so beautiful_ , he thinks petulantly. He’d tried to convince her to stay behind, for all the good it had done him.

 

Behind them, Cersei Lannister sits in a plain gray gown within a barred carriage, her hands and feet chained and a gag across her mouth; for her, the handsome Commander does not spare a single glance.

 

“Your Grace, please accept our most humble surrender.”

 

“You are quick to break your contract, commander,” Jon remarks.

 

Strickland bows his head lower and offers an exaggerated flourish. “You’ve captured my employer, Your Grace, and therefore my contract has been made void.”

 

“Have you a copy of this contract?” Sansa demands.

 

The man lifts his head toward her, flashing a charming smile. “My lady, it would be my pleasure to present it to you.” He snaps his gloved fingers and a very nervous young man in a fine tunic stumbles forward with a scroll clutched in his hands. Strickland snatches it up and holds it out with an air of exaggerated drama. Jon catches Sansa eyes, which she rolls slightly before looking away.

 

Fighting back a smirk, Jon motions Sam forward to retrieve the contract. His old friend takes it carefully before hurrying back to Jon’s side. Sam reads through the document carefully, muttering to himself, as the rest of them wait awkwardly in suspense.

 

“There’s a clause here,” Sam says, “It accounts for the death of an employer, but it also includes kidnapping. There are… some circumstances where capture does not void the contract, but only if the employer in question put in certain provisions.”

 

Jon lifts his head. “Provisions upon kidnapping,” he says to the still prostate Strickland, “Did Cersei have any?”

 

Strickland lifts his head, meeting Jon’s eyes at last. “She… did, Your Grace.”

 

Unease sits heavy in his gut and the Lannister queen’s gaze feels like a physical weight on his back.

 

“Elaborate,” Sansa commands, her horse dancing beneath her before settling again. She looks well today, Jon thinks proudly, dressed in her fine blue cloak, with her hair loose down her back and steel in her bright eyes.

 

“Of course, most gracious lady,” Strickland says with another charming smile. Jon is growing to dislike that smile. “Upon learning that Your Grace survived the war with the undead, the former Queen Cersei Lannister, our employer, ordered us to place hundreds of barrels of Wildfire throughout the city.”

 

Behind him, Cersei Lannister rattles in her cages, cursing through her gag. No one looks to her.

 

“And you could locate and remove these barrels?” Jon presses, his unease growing.

 

A different sort of smile blooms on Harry Strickland’s face and a hint of cunning flashes in his eyes - _he is not a man to be underestimated,_ Jon thinks.

 

“Of course, Your Grace, every single barrel is currently within the bowels of the Dragonpit.”

 

Jon frowns, uncertain what the man is trying to say, but Sansa has always been quicker. “You mean you did not place them as commanded?”

 

“No, gracious lady, we did not.”

 

“Why?” Jon asks.

 

“The Lannister Queen is mad. She knew you would bring your dragons and rather than allow you to take the city, she would burn it to the ground, along with everyone inside it.” Disgust is clear in his voice. “We would do our duty by the mad woman, but we are mercenaries, Your Grace, not martyrs.”

 

“You and your men will throw down your weapons and vacate the city,” Sansa decrees.

 

“Of course, my lady, before nightfall every last member of the Golden Company will have turned over their swords and be outside the city walls.”

 

“Some of your men will lead us to this cache of Wildfire,” Jon added.

 

“Of course, of course, whatever Your Grace demands,” the man simpered.

 

Jon considers for a moment saying more, but exchanges a quick glance with Sansa and thinks better of it. They had discussed many options that morning over breakfast, some which were not quite ripe for the picking. “That will do for now, Commander Strickland,” he says at last.

 

Strickland rises to his feet and executes an extravagant bow. “You are merciful and wise, great king.”

 

“You have till nightfall, our soldiers will oversee your extraction,” Jon replies, ready to be done with the obnoxious man.

 

“Of course, sire, I only wondered if I might ask… what will you do with the Lannister woman?” his eyes stay downcast, never glancing behind him to where Cersei's wails are still muffled.

 

Jon’s jaw tightens. “She will be met with the justice she deserves, Commander Strickland.”

\--

Sansa crests the hill, hundreds of eyes upon her as the sun begins to set like flames on the horizon. She is dressed in muted grays and black, her bodice crafted of fine, dark leather and a simple silver chain falls from her neck and disappears into the belt at her waist. Jon thinks she looks fierce and imposing, almost like an executioner, as she turns to face Cersei Lannister.

 

The once great Queen is dressed in a coarse gray shift that whips about her legs as a strong sea breeze tears across the hillside. She is still beautiful, Jon thinks, but in a sad, almost haunted way. Arya stands behind Cersei, holding her bound hands, an unapologetic smile on her lips. In the slight valley below, the Golden Company, divested of their weapons, are being separated and divided into camps, their voices carried brokenly on the wind. After the sun sets, more of their men will enter the city and deal with the deposit of Wildfire, and then… perhaps, it will finally be over.

 

Sansa unfurls the scroll in her hands and turns toward the gathered crowd, their faces grim and full of burning hatred. In a clear, strong voice, Sansa reads, “Cersei of House Lannister, you have been accused and found guilty of murder, the mass slaughter of innocents, conspiracy to commit murder, and high treason against the crown. For these crimes, and in the name of King Jon of House Targaryen the First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the Prince Who Was Promised, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of Realm, the penalty is death by beheading. Have you any last words?” Jon tries not to cringe, hating each and every one of his ridiculous titles -Dany would have teased him endlessly. _It should have been her_ , he thinks, pressing his eyes closed for a moment.

 

Cersei looks to Sansa, her eyes bright and fierce. “I should have killed your entire miserable family when I had the chance.”

 

Sansa ignores this, snaps the scroll closed, and nods to Arya, who leads Cersei to the wooden block that had been prepared for the occasion. Cersei is pushed to her knees and Arya forcibly positions her neck over the block as two men secure her arms to either side. She does not resist, she does not even look up. Jon approaches, thinking of his father, Eddard Stark, and slowly draws his sword, wishing this duty might fall to someone,  _anyone_ , else.

 

The distant sound of waves crashing and the bracing craw of seagulls is the only sound as Jon lifts Longclaw high and steady above his head. He sends a silent prayer to the Old Gods that his aim will be true, that he will have the strength left for what must be done, and removes Cersei's head from her shoulders with one swift swing. Blood spurts in an arc and the head falls into the prepared basket with a muffled _thud_ that he feels in his gut. Jon looks up, slightly dazed, and meets Tyrion Lannister’s eye. There are tears on the dwarf's face, but not for what was, Jon thinks, but for what might have been.  

\--

 _A queen does not have the luxury of rest_ , Daenerys had once told him, haggard and worn, pouring over scrolls and pages of smudged parchment. She’d been a born leader, a ruler of men, and even she had floundered under the strain. What hope did he have, Jon often wondered, as each day blended into the next. Would it never end?

 

That night, feeling the weight of Longclaw in his hands still, the resistance of Cersei Lannister's neck as he’d removed her head from her body, he takes a moment of solace by finding Missandei. She’s in the tent nearest his own, and she hands over his daughter with a smile. Something inside him eases instantly as he takes Lyanna’s slight weight into his arms. Everything he had done today, he had done to protect her. 

 

The little princess is awake and alert, staring up at him with almost comical stoicism. “She has your mannerisms,” the slight woman says fondly.

 

Jon chuckles. “Brooding and joyless, you mean.”

 

Missandei bows her head with a rare smile; she’d been a ghost, just like him, after her queen had died. The child has brought them renewed life and purpose, and Jon was grateful she had remained with him, with _them_.

 

“Has Lady Sansa been through?” he asks, running a knuckle down his daughter’s delicate cheeks, her eyes fluttering and closing at the contact. He has not seen Sansa since the execution and he has matters he wishes to discuss with her before he can find his rest; often, when he can not find her, she is in Lyanna's tent, holding the infant and cooing over her or humming soothing tunes.

 

“Yes,” Missandei says, her words toneless and her expression stony.

 

Sansa had been reluctant to trust Daenerys at the first, and they had never been friends, a fact which Missandei still seemed to hold against her even though Dany had not. Jon wishes he knew what to say to ease that strain between them, but he is weary and hasn’t the fine words such a thing certainly required.

 

“Not long ago,” the woman adds as Jon presses a soft kiss to Lyanna’s head and hands her over, missing the weight of her almost instantly.

 

Jon places a hand firmly on Missandei’s slim shoulder and offers her a smile. “Thank you, Missandei, for looking after her.”

 

The woman smiles and ducks her head. “It is my honor… Your Grace.”

\--

Sansa is not in her tent and both Arya and Sam shrug helplessly when he asks after her.

 

It’s Podrick Payne, Brienne’s squire, that finally points him in the right direction. “She’s down by the creek, Your Grace,” the young man says with a slight bow.

 

Jon frowns, following the line of his finger into the muted darkness. “Alone?”

 

“I’ve been keeping watch, Your Grace. She… she said she did not wish to be disturbed.”

 

Jon hesitates. “Has she been down there long?”

 

“No, not long, Your Grace. I was going to go check on her in a few moments.”

 

Squaring his shoulders Jon gives Podrick a slight smile. “I’ll go, thank you for watching out for her.”

 

The other man flushes a bit and bows stiffly; Gods, he hates all the bowing. “It is an honor, Your Grace.”

 

Jon finds her close to the stream, her hair gleaming in the moonlight, one pale, shining hand extended into the water. She lifts her head when he approaches and there are tears on her cheeks. They stop him in his tracks. The Sansa of his boyhood had wept often, usually over silly things, but the woman before him now had barely shed a single tear since they’d been reunited, despite all the horror and loss.

 

“I once swore I would never return to the Red Keep,” she tells him. “That I would go home and never leave it.”

 

Jon’s heart clenches and he walks hesitantly forward, kneeling close to her side. “I would send you back to Winterfell if that is what you want, Sansa. I do not wish to keep you prisoner.” It was true, just as it is true that he could not do this, could not rule a kingdom without her.

 

She huffs out a humorless laugh and looks away, fingers trailing through the softly moving water. “There is hardly anything to return home _to_ , and I belong with my family.” She looks up, sadness and grief and the memory of past hurts reflecting within the watery depths of her pretty eyes. “You are my home now, Jon Snow, where you go, I will follow.”

 

“The lone wolf dies…” he starts, wrapping an arm about her slim shoulders.

 

She leans into him, her head resting lightly upon his shoulder, as she finishes, “But the pack survives.”

 

They stay like that for a long while, huddled in the dark, letting the stream slowly wash away the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya's POV up next.


	4. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya grapples with a name that no longer seems to fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind this fic is canon divergent following 8x02. Some violence and smut in this one. Also angst.

She doesn’t know who she is without a sword in her hand, without dirt and blood beneath her nails… without vengeance in her heart. There are still some mornings where she wakes and she can’t recall her own name. Often, those are the better mornings.

 

The camp begins to feel suffocating, bodies pressing, collapsing in on her like the bars of a prison cell, so Arya slips away with the team of men chosen to retrieve the cache of Wildfire within King’s Landing. She doesn’t tell Sansa or Jon or anyone that she’s leaving, but she thinks they are all used to her disappearing act by now. Even Sansa has largely stopped questioning her. Sometimes she almost misses it.

 

It’s just her luck, however, that Gendry happens to be one of the chosen and trusted few. He walks sullenly at the rear of the company, inconspicuous in his hooded cloak until it’s too late and they are already within the city walls and she cannot justify turning back without feeling like an utter coward. She’s been avoiding him. Or more accurately, she’s been avoiding herself.

 

She hadn’t expected either of them to live, she reminds herself again, almost as a justification, feeling oddly jittery. The moments they’d shared together before the battle with the Night King had felt stolen, like they were meant for someone else. Someone better. Someone whole. She doesn't know how to face him now, didn’t know what to _say_.

 

Gendry doesn’t share in her hesitation.

 

“Didn’t think to see you here,” he says, coming to stand alongside her. His tone is icy and his shoulders are tensed, bunched up near his ears. It makes her want to smack him.

 

The streets of Flea Bottom are all but deserted and there’s a feeling of foreboding in the stagnant night air; already she misses the cold of home, the soft crunch of snow beneath her boots, the scent of pine and wood-smoke on the breeze. Everything smells like warm shit in the South.  

 

Arya says nothing, eyes resolutely ahead, trying to ignore the little flip her stomach gives when he’s near. Increasingly often over the past months she’s found herself thinking of his hands on her skin, the sensation of him inside her, filling and stretching. Complete, that’s how he’d made her feel, just for that one shining moment, with the god of death breathing down their necks, she had felt almost whole. It is utterly and completely terrifying to her.

 

“Figured you’d be stuck up in that big tent with all the other important folk,” he murmurs, undeterred by her silence, “now that your brother is King . Didn’t think you’d want to get your hands dirty anymore.”

 

He’s trying to rile her, she knows. Trying to irritate a response out of her. It’s frustrating how well it’s working. He’s hurt by her distance, that much is clear -Gendry was never any good at hiding his feelings- and she doesn’t blame him. Part of her wants to draw closer, wants to open that part of herself he’s so clearly after, but she’s not sure how. She’s not even sure it exists and she’s afraid to find out, one way or the other.    

 

“My hands are always dirty,” she murmurs through a clenched jaw, slipping away from him before he can draw any more from her. Few of the men even notice her passage as she darts between them, eventually melding with the shadows, pursuing now, rather than accompanying.

 

The commander of the Golden Company, a prissy golden haired prick in gilded armor, leads them through the winding alleys, and it’s him she watches closely, waiting for the trap. Almost hoping for it. Her blood sings with the need for a fight, with the desperate desire for violence. With the need to _feel_. Anything to distract her from herself.

 

After retrieving three pull-carts, they make the slow trek up to the Dragonpit, a foreboding and haunted place that Arya immediately dislikes. It reminds her of the old, dark tales her Septa had told them about the fall of Valyria and it’s cursed ruins. Part of her almost wishes Jon had burnt the whole horrid city to ash.

 

 _Cursed, this whole bloody city feels cursed_.

 

The moon is high and bright, filtering through jagged buttresses that rise high and curved into the night sky like broken ribs.The dome’s massive iron doors have been sealed shut for hundreds of years, and their little company bypass them in favor of a rotting wooden door along the westward facing wall, a heavy iron lock holding it closed. Stupid, she thinks grumpily, wishing keenly she’d found some other way to distract herself for the evening. Any idiot could ram into a half rotted door and knock it off it’s rusted hinges. She’s almost tempted to do it herself, just to prove a point, as the gilded commander fumbles with a key at his belt.

 

The men are uneasy, she notes absently, as unconvinced as she is that some trap isn’t awaiting them. Cersei Lannister’s last great plot. Still, they dutifully shuffle inside when the commander _finally_ manages to pull the lock free. She is the last to delve within the shadowed corridor, blinking into the silvery darkness outside for a moment longer before disappearing within. Someone lights a torch, casting long shadows and she follows behind Gendry, footsteps soundless on the dusty stones.

 

It happens suddenly.

 

Her heart begins to thunder in her breast and visions of the undead within the walls of Winterfell assail her like arrows in the dark; she can hear the screams of men, women… children ricocheting through haunted hallways, can smell the sick-sweet burn of dragon fire and decaying flesh. Her feet feel leaden, frozen, sunk into the stone, and slowly the light of the torch recedes, leaving her in darkness. Fear finds her, overwhelms her, and she hears the shuffling of rotted feet and the scrape of bone across frozen stone; the cold touch of death tracks her through the visions of a tomb that had once been her home. Bodies and blood and screams. Broken, everything is broken. _Sansa,_ she screams, her sister’s pale eyes wide in terror, _run Sansa!_

 

She can’t breathe, she can’t _breathe_.

 

“Arya,” Gendry calls through the haze, gripping her shoulders tightly, his face very near her own. His face, she thinks, trying to focus on it... handsome, pale, _dear_ , shines in the darkness and the screaming recedes just a little.  

 

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead firmly to hers and taking in long, exaggerated breaths. She struggles to match him, fights to fill her lungs, to find herself again. Slowly sanity returns until they are alone, just the two of them in the hot darkness. A furious broken sob catches at the back of her throat and she’s sweating and trembling, all at once grateful for his help and furious that she should be so _weak_. That he should be the one to see it.

 

Gendry is still holding her, their faces very close, his eyes closed as he speaks so low that even in the empty hall she can barely hear him over the drumming of her erratic pulse.

 

“I panicked when the dead breached the walls at Winterfell. I was never much for fighting, not like you, I was just strong and stubborn… but I, I’d never-” he swallows hard as he pulls back to stare at her with an expression she is sure is as haunted as her own. “I hid. I ran and I hid, sobbing like a babe. Until…” his throat bobs again as his hands shift uncertainty, drifting up her neck to cup her face. His touch is like sweet fire, chasing the shivers away. “Until I saw you. You were like something out of a song, Arya. I-I’d never seen anything like it. The way you fought… It gave me courage - _you_ gave me courage. You gave me the strength I needed to survive.”

 

She closes her eyes, sagging against the wall she’d somehow come to crouch against, letting him hold her, drinking in the warmth of his hands and the familiarity of his smell. She’d dreamed of him, in the years they were apart. Before she’d lost her face and her name, she'd imagined what it might be like, to find him again.  

 

“It's been a long time since I was afraid,” she says, almost without meaning to. “I thought we were all going to die.”

 

“Many of us would have, if not for you,” he reminds her, hands falling away as awkwardness leaks into the moment like water in a slow sinking ship. “Lets get some air, that Wildfire shit gives me the fuckin creeps.”

 

He rises stiffly to his feet and offers her a hand. She contemplates his fingers for a long moment, embarrassment warring with practicality, before she finally takes it and allows him to pull her up on legs that tremble. They fumble their way outside and she almost instantly feels better, more like herself, and she drops Gendry’s hand.

 

“Arya…” Gendry says from behind her and something in his tone makes her tense and freeze.

 

“If you want to pretend as though _it_ … what happened between us before the battle… if you want to pretend it didn’t happen, I’d understand. I know you hate being a lady but you’re high born and I’m not, I know you don’t-”

 

Arya whips around to face him, embarrassment transitioning easily into anger. “You think I give a fuck that you’re not high born?”

 

His eyes gleam at her in the dark, as stubborn as ever. “You’ve been avoiding me since it happened. I figured you were ashamed o-or maybe angry with me. T-that maybe I’d done something or said something-”

 

A soft sound in the darkness brings all of Arya’s senses singing into awareness.

 

“Get down!” she cries dropping to the earth as an arrow wizes above her head. Gendry hisses in pain as he fumbles after her, another arrow grazing his shoulder, blood turned to dark silver against his tunic in the moonlight. The sight of him bleeding clicks something that had been dislodged back into place and cold calculation takes over.

 

In one swift movement she rolls across the dirt, draws her sword, and grasps Gendry’s arm with her free hand, tugging him toward the nearest cart. She half drags him before he gets his feet under him, cursing fervently under his breath.

 

“There’s at least four of them,” she says, listening to the rustle and twang of bows being drawn and the scuffing of boots in the loose dirt.

 

Gendry pushes away from her. “We should warn the others before-”

 

Arya shoves him back against the cart, rocking to the balls of her feet and pulling a dagger out of her boot. She shoots upright and flings the knife into the nearby brush, eliciting a gurgling scream.

 

“Or I could just kill them,” she says tonelessly, ducking away from another arrow just as a man in Lannister red and gold barrels at her from out of the darkness.

 

Fighting is as easy as breathing, a well rehearsed dance that her muscles and bones know by heart. The sound of her sword singing through the dark the only melody she’ll ever need. It is the only thing in life she has ever been any good at. The only thing she’s certain she’ll ever be any good for; more weapon than woman. More steel than flesh.

 

Gendry fends off one large, fully armored man with his great axe, nearly cleaving him in two just as the others emerge from the Dragonpit, fumbling to draw their swords as they take in the bloody scene.

 

But it is already over as Arya smirks and wipes Needle against her pant leg before sheathing it. Commander Prick Face is blinking at her as though someone struck him on the back of the head and Gendry sighs, yanking his axe out of the dead man’s back.

 

“Stop looking at her like that, she already thinks she’s the Warrior incarnate, the Father’s fucking gift to Westeros” he japes, shooting Arya a jaunty wink, and a few of the other men chuckle.

 

Arya is appalled to find she is blushing.

 

“Come on then, lads,” he says, securing his weapon against his back and kicking the dead man aside. “We’ve done the hard bit, now you load the wagons so we can get the fuck out of here. Devon, you owe me an ale.”

 

\--

 

With the carts loaded, they make for the Alchemist’s Guild, where the pale, sickly looking acolytes within can shuffle the foul stuff away again. The men are more talkative, lively even, jesting crudely among themselves as they pull the carts through deserted streets.

 

Arya can feel Gendry’s eyes on her as they walk; suddenly hyper aware of the her own body, of the sway of her hips and the swell of her breasts beneath her tunic. She feels as though she’s being hunted, but rather than wishing to flee, she thinks she’d rather like to be caught.

 

Wordlessly, they fall into step behind the wagons, not looking at one another, not speaking a word, but her shoulder brushes his arm and his fingers skim across hers in a jarring contact of skin on skin. _Gods_ , _I feel like I might climb out of my own skin_.

 

They exchange a single, lingering glance and Gendry’s eyes are molten in the damp heat of the night. She feels herself growing wet and eager, adrenaline from fighting alchemizing easily into tension of another kind. Her gaze drifts to his mouth, lips full and a little chapped, and she wonders what it might feel like to sink her teeth into the lower one. Wonders what it might be like to draw blood.

 

Gendry makes a sound low in his chest, almost like a growl, and takes her hand roughly in his, drawing her into a dark alley that is at least relatively clear of shit. She hardly cares.

 

Objectively, Arya understands what is happening between them, had witnessed shades of it in the men and women around her over the years since she’d escaped King’s Landing, especially after a fight, but such cursory knowledge could not prepare her for the actuality. Despite all she has seen and done, this new found intimacy, this connection with another person, is all but unknown to her. It had never been a temptation, sex, nor even a thought before now. Not really. The only man she’d ever really wanted was Gendry and that had solidified itself long before she even knew what it was to want a man.

 

Her back is pressed tight against cool stone and Gendry’s mouth is at her throat, wet and hot and mind numbing, sending her thoughts skittering into the night, graceless and impossible to catch. Little shivers are washing up and down her spine as she clings to him, already panting, blood singing in her veins. She’d been in command of their last coupling, the sure and certain of the two of them despite her lack of experience, but she can hardly see or think straight as he situates a knee between hers and hoists her up against the wall so that they are at a level. Her sex rests against the hard length of his thigh and she can not help but roll her hips into the delicious, jittery sensation that sends sparks shooting like stars through her limbs.

 

He curses under his breath and grips her arse roughly, encouraging the movement as his teeth nip at the place where her neck and shoulder met. Some wild part of her wants to claw him apart, wants to draw her nails across the skin of his back until she draws blood, until she can taste it on her tongue.  

 

Arya grabs the back of his head, the short strands of his hair pricking at her palm, and forcibly guides his mouth to hers. Their first coupling had been quick and desperate, but that desperation has transformed into something different, something that hints at a chance for more. She’d caught him off guard, that first time, but he is thorough now as he dips his tongue into her mouth, gripping the side of her face to hold her steady. She nips his bottom lip and he growls low in his throat and gods she feels as though she barely exists beyond this moment, beyond the wet slide of his tongue and the sharp press of his fingers digging into her thigh where he holds her tightly against him.

 

She reaches for the ties of his trousers the same instant he reaches for hers and he huffs a little laugh into her mouth. Smirking, she tugs roughly at the laces and dips her hand within, wrapping her fingers around his hardened length and tugging gently but firmly. He groans her name, head falling against her shoulder, one hand fumbling to lift her tunic, short nails dragging along her stomach in search of her breast. She arches her back, helping him, moaning long and loud as his thumb brushes across her nipple.

 

“Gods, Arya,” he breathes, adjusting her leg until her ankles lock against his lower back. She pulls her hand free of him, clinging to his broad shoulders, his shirt damp with the blood from the arrow graze beneath her fingers, and he rolls his hips, sending waves of almost painful pleasure up her spine. “ _Fuck_ , Arya, I love you… Gods, I love you.”

 

The words crash through the haze over her mind like an icy blast and she freeze against him. He notices the change in her almost instantly, drawing back to look her in the eye, irises gleaming faintly in the darkness, pupils blown wide. They are both panting, his hand is still on her breast and his cock is pulsing against her through their breeches.

 

“Don’t,” she croaks, something like panic creeping up her throat. “Don’t.”

 

“Arya-” he beings with a hint of exasperation, anger and something that looks suspiciously like hurt darkening his gaze, but she’s already pushing him away.

 

Space, she needs space.

 

“I’m not that girl,” she tells him, fingers deftly fixing the ties of her clothing, almost desperate to take flight.

 

Gendry shakes his head, mind still sluggish with lust, hands flexing jerkily at his sides as though he wants to reach for her. She takes another step back.  “What girl?” he demands.

 

She flutters a hand at him, heat rising in her face. “The sort you want.”

 

“The sort _I_ want?”

 

Her gaze dips, fixating on the muddy tips of her boots. “Soft, pretty... feminine.”

 

“Gods, Arya.” he says, exasperation leaking in. “Do you really not know? I feel as if you’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted. Arya, there’s no one for me but you.”

 

His words sting like a blow, striking something tender and delicate hidden deep within her. Something that remembers being the ugliest Stark girl. That remembers the way the stable boys would laugh and jeer and call her horse face. But it’s more than that. It’s all the years they’d spent apart and all the things she’d let herself become, the name that she’d cast aside, a name that hasn’t quite fit the same since.

 

“I’m not the girl you remember,” she tells him, feeling cold, detached, adrift. “Not after the things I’ve done.”

 

His hand lifts toward her, a life line, a chance at something new. “Arya... Arya, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t-”

 

The urge to flee becomes too strong, overwhelming, the panic swelling and growing until she can’t fight it back any more. “It’s the only thing that matters!” she half screams and spins on her heel, running full force into the rank darkness of Flea Bottom, wondering if she might outrun herself.  

 

He calls after her, maybe even chases her, but she barely hears him through the rush of wind in her ears, through the wild and terrible beating of her heart. Darting through alleyways almost blindly, with no notion of where she is headed, she wishes with a horrible intensity that she might never feel anything ever again.

 

\---

 

Sansa is asleep in her tent, one pale hand tucked under her perfectly smooth cheek, her breath stirring a few strands of her beautiful hair. She looks like a princess from a story, lovely, perfect, unreachable. Everything Arya will never be.

 

Sansa eyes blink open, unfocused and heavy with sleep. They take in Arya’s face and sharpen immediately, her hand drifting beneath her pillow in search of the knife Arya knows she keeps hidden there. Her sweet, lady-like sister who sleeps with a knife beneath her pillow.

 

Sansa sits up, blankets falling away, her pristine white dressing gown bright in the darkness. The dagger flashes in her hand. “Arya? What is it, what has happened?”

 

She says nothing. Has no words for the sick ache in her breast, for the deep well of uncertainty that threatens to consume her. Its done. Its over. The war is past, the people who had destroyed her family are either dead and gone or alive and diminished, not worth her notice. There is nothing left for her. She is No One. When Cersei’s head had rolled, severed at last, she’d not felt relief or joy as she’d expected, she’d felt only a hollow echo, felt only the vast chasm the deaths of her family had left behind.

 

Without really meaning to, she slowly slips into Sansa’s cot, her sister moving jerkily to one side to make room, mouth open as if to speak but unable to form the words.

 

Arya settles her head on Sansa’s pillow, which smells of lemons and lavender. She smells of steel and blood. She shuts her eyes. “I gave away my name and I don’t think I ever got it back.”

 

She can feel Sansa’s hesitation before she settles in beside her, no part of them touching despite the lack of room on the slim cot, but her breath warms Arya’s face, a little sour but mostly sweet. “None of us are who we were, Arya. None of us ever will be again.”

 

After a long moment of shared silence, she asks in a voice that trembles, “What do we do now?”

 

Sansa’s hand finds her’s beneath the blankets, soft fingers curving over her scarred, blood splattered knuckles and squeezing. For one brief moment they are girls again, giggling beneath the covers, sharing a stolen treat from the kitchens, their silly quarrels forgotten under the weight of darkness in their shared room.

 

“We remember how to live.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For someone who detests writing action sequences, I seem to be writing a lot of them in this fic so far.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are lovely and so are you :D


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